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Idle, Idol
Lamposts with thorns
we take lit streets for granted
and they stand silently in our scorn.
Our city streets don't burn,
they flicker,
with the wind of passing people
small lights not even reaching
halfway up the steeple.
We praise with arms half raised
and eyes opened, glazed
we read words in a daze
as the incense rises in a haze.
How else can we agree
to worship "we"?
It only makes sense to me.
